A yollow bed avore our zight—
Whatever season it mid be,
The trees be always company.
When dusky night do nearly hide
The path along the hedge's zide,
An' dailight's hwomely sounds be still
But sounds o' water at the mill;
Then if noo feäce we long'd to greet
Could come to meet our lwonesome treäce
Or if noo peäce o' weary veet,